


How to Uncook an Egg

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blood, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Funerals, Hand Jobs, High School, Hormones, Horny Teenagers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Void Stiles, Mutual Pining, No Strings Attached, POV Alternating, Sharing a Bed, Skinny Dipping, Teenage Drama, ha ha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:46:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: It's all fun and games until someone gets their stupid feelings puked on.//Derek stares. “What are you talking about, Stiles?”Stiles groans and surges forward, mouth on Derek’s mouth, hands in Derek’s hair, on the sides of his face, the back of his neck.“No strings attached, ok?” Stiles says, breathless, against the side of Derek’s face, his jaw, his ear. “We can do that, if that’s what you want.”“Is that whatyouwant?” Derek says. His hands are under Stiles' shirts, sliding against smooth smooth skin, up his sides around to his back, down the notches of his spine, everything warm and smooth. “Is it?”Stiles just kisses him hard, harder and Derek just keeps kissing him back.Or:Derek never stays the night. Stiles pretends he doesn’t mind.





	How to Uncook an Egg

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write something light and funny, but no. Also, I set out to write this as a sort of prequel to 100 Miles an Hour in Reverse but, also no. So, it is what it is, whatever it is. I wrote it quickly, more quickly than usual for me, anyway, as a challenge to myself, and as always, cherry-picked events from the show that fit my own personal narrative. Played loose and fast with the show’s “facts,” made it up as I went along, etc., etc.
> 
> Written in late August to a symphony of screaming cicadas.

//

 

my happy is a high fever that will break  
my happy is as hollow as a pin-pricked egg

_~Depression & Other Magic Tricks, Sabrina Benaim_

 

//

 

The day is painfully sunny, knife-edge bright with no mitigating softness, no clouds in the sky, not a single goddamn cloud and Stiles doesn’t have sunglasses and his head hurts and his eyes hurt because there’s so much sun everywhere. There’s a word for this, for the weather being like this on a day like this. He thinks hard about his English classes, about weather and how it reflects mood. Is that right? No. That’s not it. He squints in the sunshine. There’s a dull throb building behind his right eye that is quickly turning into a stabbing pain. _Irony_. Is it ironic that it’s so fucking sunny right now? Is that it? Stiles picks at a loose hangnail on his right thumb with his index finger. He runs through every literary device he can think of, allegory, alliteration, metaphor, iambic fucking pentameter, onomatopoeia. He repeats that one again, then again and again, because he likes the sound of it. _Onomatopoeiaonomatopoeiaonomato—_. There’s a subtle but sharp nudge in his ribs and he looks over at his dad, who is frowning at him. He makes the “shh” motion with his lips. Oh. Stiles is saying things out loud then. He bites the inside of his lip to make himself stop.

Personification? Imagery? It’s bugging him now. Why can’t he remember the fucking word? He’s a good student. He pays attention in class. He _likes_ English. He likes words and their meanings. He picks at the hangnail, keeps picking. The tiny sliver of skin pulls free with a tiny stab of pain and blood wells there along the edge of the nail. He watches, mesmerized, as it gathers and grows and then threatens to drip off the end of the nail. He jams his thumb in his mouth and sucks, then realizes how that looks and quickly takes it out, looks around to see who has noticed.

No one has noticed.

He squints in the sun. He can feel a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead now and the drone of a man’s voice goes on and on and on and—

Pathetic fallacy. That’s it. That must be it.

“Pathetic fucking fallacy,” he says and now people _are_ looking because he said it out loud, loud enough for people to hear. His dad huffs out a breath even as Stiles is pretty proud of himself because he’s sure that’s what this is. This sunshine this heat this perfectly glorious beautiful day that should have them all outside enjoying their young lives but instead they’re here, standing in front of a huge, gaping hole and a man is talking about eternal life and shadows and valleys and people are crying.

They’re crying because it’s a funeral.

It’s a funeral because someone has died.

Heather has died. Heather is dead. This is Heather’s funeral.

She’s been murdered and she’s dead and there are a lot of people standing around watching a 17-year-old’s dead body being lowered into a grave. Well, they’re watching a coffin being lowered into a grave, but inside that glossy, mahogany box is a body. Stiles knows this. Everyone standing around knows this. Stiles closes his eyes because he can’t watch anymore but apparently that’s a bad idea because suddenly he can’t tell up from down or left from right and he sways, dangerously close to falling. His dad grabs his arm and holds it tight, vice-like, slides another arm around his back and pulls him close. Cicadas are screaming all around them now, up in the trees, endless tuneless buzzing. Stiles wants to cover his ears. He clenches his hands to keep from doing it. He realizes ear covering, along with thumb sucking, might not look…good.

“Hang on, son,” his dad says under his breath. “Almost done.”

The coffin goes down and down and down, dear god how deep is this hole, and Stiles can hear whispers now, sniffles, full-on sobs from Heather’s parents, just below the piercing pitch of the cicadas. He opens his eyes and there’s a little girl looking right at him. She looks a lot like Heather and she’s staring at him, eyes wide, face pale and pinched. She’s not crying. It’s Heather’s sister. Stiles remembers now. She’d been at the house that night, the night of the party, the last night he’d seen Heather. The sister — Hope? Charity? Grace? Stiles bites the inside of his cheek hard — had peered over the upstairs banister before she’d been quickly bundled off to bed, away from the rowdiness and drunkenness of horny teenagers.

Pick pick pick.

There’s more blood now and more pain which is ok because it’s really distracting. Not distracting enough but ok for now. The coffin hits the bottom and the sobbing really kicks up a notch. Stiles sways in the circle of his dad’s embrace. He actually worries he may pass out. The sun beats down and down and down. The top of his head is on fire. He can’t pass out. He can’t make a scene at someone else’s funeral. How awful how _embarrassing_ would that be.

When he opens his eyes again, there’s a face staring at him that he hadn’t noticed before. Derek. Derek Hale is there, trying to blend in, dressed in sombre, dark clothes. Well he always wears dark clothes, Stiles supposes, and he’s always pretty sombre, but he looks formal, more formal than usual and it throws Stiles for a bit of a loop. Derek Hale is here. At Heather’s funeral. On a hot sunny day. Derek is watching him closely, his face impassive but with a twitch at one corner of his mouth and a deeper frown than usual between his huge eyes. Derek has really fucking big eyes, Stiles thinks, and they’re looking right at him.

 _Better to see you with_ , Stiles thinks, out of nowhere and now he does giggle. He stifles it so it sounds more like a strangled cough, shoulders hitching, and his dad’s arm tightens around his back. Dear sweet Jesus let this be over soon. Please.

Pick pick. Pick. Derek’s steady gaze falls, down to Stiles’ thumb, which is now fairly coated in blood. Stiles imagines how he must look to the casual onlooker, to the well-heeled funeral attendee, to the mourners gathered there to weep as their daughter/sister/friend/acquaintance hits the bottom of the six-foot hole in the ground forever and ever and whoops there’s that guy, that dude who was, reportedly, the last person on earth to see her alive, and is he crying? Is he mourning, too? Who knows, but his thumb is dripping all over his shoe like something out of a horror movie, so there’s that.

Stiles curls his hand into a fist, grips it tight. Everything is slippery.

When he looks back up Derek is gone.

“Let us pray,” the man says. The cicadas scream in reply.

He jams his thumb in his mouth and sucks hard.

It’s not fucking pathetic fallacy at all, he thinks.

It’s a fucking tragedy.

 

//

 

Derek’s head snaps up when Scott and Stiles walk in, late. Derek’s expression is frowny, which isn’t unusual, but the fact that his gaze is honed in on Stiles, is. Even his nostrils are flaring like he smells something bad. Or, he’s even more pissed off than usual. Scott sighs and rolls his eyes.

“I better go see what’s wrong,” he says, pushing past Erica and Boyd, Isaac and Jackson, Ethan and Aidan. Even Lydia and Allison are here tonight, heads together, talking animatedly about something Stiles is sure he’d have no interest in. He watches Scott approach Frowny Derek. He watches their mouths move and Derek make some jerky kind of angry gestures, but he can’t tell what it’s about or if he’s angry or constipated or what. Derek’s eyes flick in Stiles’ direction more than once but by that time Stiles has lost interest, listing heavily to the right in his chair, arm perched on the small table next to it.

Stiles’ thumb is throbbing, literally. When he holds it up and looks closely at it, he swears he can see it pulsating, just slightly. It’s also red and very swollen, all the flesh around the nail fat and red and extremely sore. He can’t really do anything with it, including type or hold a pen or drive, without causing moderate to great distress. He doesn’t pay much attention to the meeting, or what anyone says during the meeting. He stares at his thumb and flexes it and blows on it and pokes it and winces a lot as the voices rise and fall, argue and debate around him.

“What are you doing?” Scott asks. Stiles startles and looks up. The meeting appears to be over thank god. There’s even food being consumed, sodas being popped. Stiles sticks his thumb up like a sad hitchhiker.

“It hurts,” he says. Scott peers at it.

“What did you do?”

Stiles shrugs. “It was a hangnail. I just picked at it like I always do.” He presses down on the swollen red skin by the nail. Yellow pus appears. It oozes out and sits there. Huh.

“Dude!” Scott makes a face and pulls back. “That is gross!”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees just as Derek appears, a glass in his hand. He slams the glass down on the table beside Stiles, face stony.

“It’s infected, you idiot,” he says. “That’s why it’s swollen. And red. And full of pus. I could smell it when you walked in.”

“You _smelled_ my swollen pus-filled thumb?” Stiles asks. “From across the _room_?” Werewolves are _insane_.

“Now _that’s_ gross,” Scott says, staring at the thumb in awe. He leans forward to sniff it but Stiles pulls it close to his body. The throbbing has intensified.

“This is for you,” Derek says, motioning to the glass. It’s filled with a slightly cloudy liquid. Stiles stares at it.

“Is that a potion?” he asks. “Did you make a potion for me? That is _so_ cool.” Stiles moves to pick it up. He’s going to shoot it like a shooter, because how cool would that be.

Derek stops the upward progression of the glass with his hand, holds it steady on the table and shakes his head like everything and everyone is hopeless. And hopelessly stupid. Then he, very gently, grabs Stiles by the wrist and dunks the swollen, oozing thumb into the glass. Derek’s fingers are very warm on Stiles’ hand. The liquid is also warm.

“It’s salt water,” Derek says because of course they don’t know this. How could they? “Keep it there. It will help.”

“For how long?” Stiles asks instead of the hundred other questions he has, like: Who are you, really? How do you know anything about salt water for infected digits? Why do you care? And, finally, My what big eyes you have, which isn’t really a question, but something Stiles is dying to say anyway, eventually.

“Until I tell you to stop,” Derek says. Then he walks away.

 

//

 

Stiles begs off school with a headache and chills and general malaise and his dad doesn’t argue, so Stiles must look as shitty as he feels. He touches Stiles’ forehead with three fingers and purses his lips like he’s considering.

“Malaise, huh?” he says. Stiles nods, but not too vigorously, because, _malaise_.

“Yeah it means a general feeling of discomfort, an uneasiness that —”

“I know what it means, Stiles. You don’t have to convince me.” He pauses at the doorway. “Just. Take it easy, ok? You deserve a break.”

Stiles thinks this is an odd thing to say, even for his dad. Why does he deserve to take it easy? From what does he need a break, exactly? What has he done that’s even vaguely taxing? He thinks dying would be pretty taxing, but then you’re dead so you can rest all you want. Dying and being dead is a pretty big fucking break.

All Stiles wants to do is sleep and sleep and sleep. But he doesn’t want to dream, no thank you. Last night was filled with bizarre images of objects melting in front of his eyes, people talking too fast for him to understand, voices rising and falling and insects shrieking. He kept his stupid thumb in Derek’s stupid salt water for an hour the night before and _everyone_ asked what the hell he was doing and every time he moved to take it out Derek glared at him so he stopped. The swelling went down a bit but it still hurts like a bastard this morning and it’s still red and he’s afraid to push on it again. It throbbed in his dreams and it throbs now. He feels both hot and cold. His dad leaves him water and a bottle of Advil and tells him to rest. He thinks this is about Heather and the funeral and maybe it is. Stiles isn’t even sure any more. When he closes his eyes he hears droning and the sound of dirt sliding off shiny wood.

He lies back on sheets that smell sweaty and sour and he can’t find a cool spot anywhere. He pulls his T-shirt up when he’s too hot, then pushes it back down when he’s too cold. He can’t get comfortable. He kicks his thin blanket off then starts shivering and struggles to grab it from the foot of his bed. He hates everything. He closes his eyes, then opens them and squawks because Derek is standing there looking at him.

“You’re sick,” he says.

“Could you _smell_ me, big guy?” Stiles flutters his eyelashes and tries to sound sexy and enticing but instead sounds croaky and phlegmy. Derek rolls his eyes.

Derek touches Stiles’ forehead like his dad did but when Derek does it, it feels different. Very different. Stiles swallows audibly.

“I’m just tired. I have general malaise,” Stiles says. “It means—”

“I know what it means,” Derek says. Derek frowns. “And it’s more than that. You have a fever, Stiles.”

“I have Advil,” Stiles says. “I’m fine. I just need —” He’s going to say _a break_ but Derek interrupts him.

“You need antibiotics,” Derek says. He reaches down and grabs Stiles’ hand with its swollen throbby thumb. He pulls it to his nose and breathes deeply. Then he recoils. “Come on,” he says, tugging Stiles into an upright position, exactly the position Stiles does not want to be in right now.

“Come on where,” Stiles says, sagging against Derek’s unfairly strong, hard body. He could sleep like this, except Derek is so fucking hot. Literally. He feels like he’s lit up from the inside, like a goddamn bonfire. Stiles tries to push away but Derek won’t let go.

“Doctor,” Derek says. He pulls Stiles up up up all the way up so he’s standing on wobbly legs. “Antibiotics, remember?”

“That’s stupid,” Stiles says. “That’s a stupid idea. I stuck my thumb in your stupid salt water like an idiot and it still hurts and I don’t need antibiotics. That’s stupid.”

But whoops too late they’re in Derek’s speedy car speeding towards, Stiles assumes, Dr. Atherton’s office on the other side of town. Stiles leans his head against the vibrating window and thinks about cool lakes and winter. He thinks about snow and how nice it would feel covering his entire body right now. His thumb hurts. Stupid thumb. Everything is stupid.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Derek says quietly, out of nowhere.

“My—” Stiles startles. Scenery is whooshing past at a high rate of speed. His stomach is rolling and his head hurts and his thumb throbs. He glances at Derek who is staring straight ahead, fingers curled around the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles are white. Stiles thought that was something writers wrote about in stories but never really happened. He was wrong. “Heather. You mean Heather.”

“Heather. Yes.” Derek nods, tight.

“She died. She’s dead.”

Derek glances at him. He nods.

“I saw her. In the morgue. Melissa. Scott’s mom. She showed me. Her, like, dead body.”

“Stiles—”

“We were at the party together. Not Melissa. Heather. Me and Heather. It was her birthday and Scott and I went and Heather like _kissed_ me, right on the mouth, and we were. She wanted. It was supposed to be her first. Our first. Both of us. It was her idea. I didn’t even ask or anything. She just said it and I was like holy shit and we went downstairs to get wine like who drinks fucking wine, right?” Stiles laughs. It’s too loud for the interior of Derek’s small sleek car. Stiles’ head hurts. He can feel Derek’s eyes on him, his great big eyes.

“Stiles, it’s ok—”

“No. No it’s not ok because she’s _dead_ , Derek. She’s dead and something killed her and I was upstairs getting a fucking condom because we were going to fuck, do you get it? And when I got back she was gone and then she was dead and then there was a funeral, you might remember that, and now you’re taking me to the fucking doctor to get antibiotics for my fucking thumb, Derek, do you not see the fucking _irony_ here. Is that irony? I don’t even know. I don’t even know but I sure as hell know it’s not anthropomorphization or pathetic fucking fallacy, man.” Then Stiles is crying, chest hitching and he’s rolling the window down so he can _breathe_ but the air outside is hotter than the air inside and the cicadas are screaming in the woods all around them and Stiles is breathing too fast now and Derek has pulled over to the side of the road, tires on gravel, everything still and silent except for the screaming. This time Stiles does cover his ears.

“I can’t go to the doctor. I can’t. I have to get out of this car. I want to go home and I want to sleep and—”

“Ok. Ok Stiles. Ok.” Derek, for some reason, is talking very quietly and soothingly like Stiles has never heard before and he’s pulling Stiles into a hug from across the seat. There are a lot of elbows and chins and sharp shoulders involved but Stiles can feel something soft against his forehead and the top of his head and he thinks it might be Derek’s palm or his cheek even, which is so odd, but he’s not complaining. He sucks in a few ragged, snotty breaths, eyes closed, face wet. “I’ll take you home, ok?”

Stiles nods. His head is under Derek’s chin and his hand, his sore one, is caught between their bodies which are kind of awkwardly pressed together but he doesn’t want to move. Derek pulls back a bit and takes Stiles’ hand in his and turns it this way and that, studying it.

“I’m just going to try—” he says. He holds the swollen thumb gently in the palm of one hand and presses on it a bit. Stiles flinches. He doesn’t mean to but fuck. That hurts. He laughs a bit, at the absurdity of it all. Derek looks at him then sets his mouth like he’s made a decision. He picks up Stiles’ hand and moves it up up up and slides Stiles’ thumb into his mouth. There’s a sudden hot surge of wetness surrounding it. Derek’s eyes flutter closed as his tongue swirls around the thumb, pressing gently, gently, along the nail, up the side, sucking so gently while his hand cups Stiles’ hand. Stiles just stares, mouth slightly open. He realizes his breath has shallowed and sped up and then he realizes he’s suddenly painfully hard in his pajama bottoms and he also realizes Derek sucking on his thumb feels completely fucking different from Stiles sucking on his thumb. Time slows and stills and Derek sucks and Stiles breathes and then, both finally and much too soon, Derek slides the thumb from his mouth and studies it, wet and glistening, with a serious eye like he’s a fucking doctor or something.

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes. “What the hell.”

“I think it worked,” Derek says and Stiles tears his gaze away from Derek’s eyes and his open wet lips down to his hand. His thumb looks completely normal, white and pale and skinny, no redness, no pus, ugh. He flexes it. No pain, nothing. He pulls his hand, shaking, out of Derek’s loose grasp. It’s still wet with Derek’s saliva and that makes him even harder than before.

“Magical healing werewolf spit,” Stiles says. He feels light headed. “You guys are insane.”

“You’re welcome.” Derek’s voice has gone flat, hands back on the wheel, engine starting, turning around towards home, tires spinning on gravel. They drive.

“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?” Stiles breathes. He can’t stop looking at Derek. Derek sighs and looks keeps looking straight ahead. “We could have just done that in my _bed._ ”

His face flushes completely red as soon as the words leave his mouth but Derek doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps driving, but Stiles notices his knuckles are even whiter than before.

Outside the open window the cicadas scream and scream.

 

//

 

High school is stupid. High school is time-consuming. High school smells like old sweat and fresh semen and ketchup and fryer grease and axle grease and high school makes his chest hurt. Nothing stops the grind of high school, the daily routine, the teachers teaching and the bullies bullying. It just keeps going and going and it never stops. The only time Stiles feels even vaguely alive these days is when he’s close to death.

Like when they’re in the woods and it’s dark and there’s a lot of shouting and a lot of growling. Someone (Scott) has pissed off a witch and now there’s an entire coven of witches determined to take them all down, even the defenseless, loud-mouthed humans among them. Someone (Derek) has issued strict instructions for said human to stay away but Stiles has ignored those instructions and good thing he does because the idiot (Derek) has taken one too many hits from a wand to the more vital body parts (head, chest, chest again, and again) because he ran in front of Stiles who was in the direct path of the flying wand spells and now he’s lying sprawled on the dirt of the forest floor, twitching and smoking slightly from several gaping wounds that Stiles is now trying to cover with his useless cold human hands. He can hear the battle raging around them, further away, far enough away that he feels safe enough with the debilitated werewolf who can’t seem to form a coherent sentence to save his life.

Stiles cradles Derek’s heavy head on his thighs. There’s no other word for it, really, cradling is happening. It’s dark and suddenly quiet, all the noise and chaos from before gone, just like that. Stiles frames Derek’s slack face with his shaking hands and he’s so angry he could spit.

“I told you to stop being a hero,” Stiles says. His hands move up and down Derek’s wet torso. He can’t stem all the blood, but he’s doing his best as the holes start to knit themselves together, slowly.

“I told you to stay home.” Derek’s voice is raspy, but still angry.

“I told you I wasn’t going to listen to your orders anymore.”

“And I told _you_ —”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Stiles hisses, clapping a hand over Derek’s moving mouth as footsteps approach but it’s just Boyd and Isaac and there’s a lot of flurry and activity and Derek is hoisted by someone a lot stronger than Stiles and carried back to his apartment where healing will apparently happen.

Stiles ends up at the apartment as well because he doesn’t want to go home and he feels partly responsible for making sure Derek gets the proper care needed. No one questions him being there so he hovers and watches and goes to the bathroom to splash cold water on his hot dirty face before checking on Derek again. Derek is being tended to by Erica and looks the grumpiest Stiles has ever seen him, eyebrows pulled down almost to his mouth, shirt ripped open and hands curled into tight fists beside his prone body. He notices Stiles immediately, of course, and launches a verbal attack immediately, picking up right where he left off in the woods.

“I told _you_ , Stiles. This is the absolute last time, I swear. You’re too distracting and you’re too weak and—”

Stiles just crosses his arms and rolls his eyes and makes talky talky blah blah motions with his hand. Derek glares and Erica makes him drink some steaming cup of goop that smells like gasoline and Derek promptly passes out.

Stiles still doesn’t leave right away, watching from the doorway as Boyd finishes cleaning his wounds and bandaging what he can and Stiles watches to make sure he can still see Derek’s chest rise and fall because _somebody_ has to.

“Come on Stiles,” Scott says, hand around Stiles’ arm, pulling him away. “Derek’s gonna be ok now. Let’s get you home, where you can sleep properly. In your own bed. Remember your bed?”

Stiles slumps against the passenger door, head against the window. He remembers a ride similar to this so long ago. Derek’s aborted trip to the doctor. The knuckles and the thumb sucking. He closes his eyes. He thinks of Derek now, impossibly pale and limp in his bed, the erratic thud of his heart, dark hair, dark lashes, mouth still, everything about him still and quiet.

“Do you really think he’s going to be ok?” he asks as Scott pulls into the driveway. It’s late and Stiles is so tired he can barely speak, but this question and its answer is vital.

“Don’t get all crazy, ok? Please?” is what Scott says and he looks directly at Stiles when he says it.

Stiles is confused. He’s also very tired. “What?”

Scott sighs. “Just. Be careful. With him.”

Oh.

“I don’t want— ”

“Derek doesn’t…do relationships, you know?”

Stiles knows. Everyone knows.

Later in bed, after he’s gotten himself off for the second time because he can’t sleep and his head is filled with too many things, he realizes he had been going to tell Scott that he didn’t want a relationship with Derek, but that was a lie. And aside from wanting Derek to be ok and wanting to kiss Derek and touch Derek all over and like hang out with him and watch stupid movies and talk about anything at all, he’d also pretty much die to keep Derek Hale safe.

And that scares the absolute shit out of him.

 

//

 

Derek knows he’s attracted to Stiles. He may keep his feelings mostly buried under layers of gruffness and rage and bitterness and world-weary disappointment but despite all that he’s more self-aware than anyone realizes, even his pack. Erica has picked up on it, of course, smiling almost shyly and knowingly at him occasionally after a meeting when she’s caught him staring at Stiles for longer than is heterosexually acceptable, but she knows better than to actually _talk_ to him about it, thank god. He thinks about Stiles more than he thinks about anyone else, wonders about him, worries for him, hears his voice in dreams, thinks about long expanses of pale mole-dotted skin, ribs and sharp hipbones under his hands, hips bucking while Derek’s head is buried between slim muscled thighs. Stiles is young though, too young, despite his obvious, overwhelming intelligence, compassion and general awareness of the world they inhabit. His nerves jangle with awareness and Derek has wanted more than once to spirit him away into the woods, just throw him over his back as he shifts and run and run and run away from everything and everyone.

He’s impossibly young.

It’s not until the night he’s injured in the woods, though, that Derek realizes those feelings are in any way reciprocated. Sure, Stiles got hard when Derek sucked on his thumb, but Jesus, what teenager wouldn’t? When Derek was 17 the curve of piano leg could set him off for hours. But Stiles hovering over him that night, in the dark, face pinched with worry and fear — for him! — stuck deep in his chest, under his ribs, twisting back to his spine. He knows Stiles is fearless, stupidly brave, the idiot, but it was his hands that night, cupping his face and his scent, pure unadulterated worry and concern that shocked him to the core.

Then he passed out.

Days later, when he was mostly healed, it was Erica who slid the final puzzle piece into place with her casual remark, thrown over one shoulder as she passed by him in the kitchen.

“Glad to see you up and about,” she said. “Let Stiles know you’re okay when you have a chance, though huh? Scott had to drag him out kicking and screaming. Thought he was going to crawl right into bed with you for the night.” He tone is light and teasing but her expression is anything but and Derek doesn’t know what to do with any of that information. So he ignores it.

Late that night in his bed he thinks about Stiles, as he often does, sometimes before he touches himself, always during and usually after. He thinks about him and how they two of them _are_ with each other, how they’d both probably fucking die trying to protect the other, and stuff like that.

And how that scares the absolute shit out of him.

 

//

 

They’re in Stiles’ Jeep and they’re racing to some abandoned warehouse on the edge of town because Scott and Isaac are trapped by three ogres and Derek issued strict instructions for Stiles to stay away but Derek’s already been weakened by wolfsbane once tonight (errant faery in the woods, long story) and there’s no way Stiles is letting him go alone so there’s a call out to Erica and Boyd as well and because of that Derek doesn’t put up too much of a fight. And Stiles does manage to help, like he always does, and only gets minorly injured, one gash to his forearm and Derek fusses over it and says never again, for the 167 th time and Stiles knows there will be a 168th time and he’s giddy with adrenaline for a number of reasons but mainly because it’s time.

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says when they’ve parked in front of Derek’s apartment. It’s dark, one streetlight illuminating Stiles’ grinning giddy face.

“What,” Derek says.

“Just.” Stiles checks his watch. “Wait for it.”

Derek waits for it.

Stiles kisses Derek exactly 12 minutes past his 18th birthday.

Derek lets him for exactly seven seconds.

Then he kisses him back.

 

//

 

Scott notices immediately, of course. It’s the combination of scent and the gigantic hickey on Stiles’ neck he supposes that gives him away.

“Jesus Stiles,” Scott says. He comes close to investigate, then backs off immediately, nose wrinkled in distaste. “Oh dude. _Dude_.” He actually looks _disappointed_. They’re leaning against their lockers between science and civics and Scott yanks on his arm to pull him away from any eavesdroppers. “What did I say, Stiles? What did I _say_?”

“You said to not be crazy. I’m not crazy. I’m completely sane. And I’m being careful. Care is being taken and everything is fine.” Stiles’ hand flutters near his neck. Fuck. He was going to cover it with…something. One of Isaac’s scarves or a turtleneck because _that_ wouldn’t have been obvious. He can feel his face heating. He wants Scott to stop _looking_ at him like that.

“I just don’t want.” Scott stops.

“I appreciate your concern, man, I really do. I’m a big boy and I’m not going to get hurt, ok?” Stiles nods and claps Scott on the shoulder. Scott can be a good friend sometimes.

Scott sighs and shakes his head. “You’re not the one I’m worried about.”

 

//

 

Lydia covers the hickey for him during lunch period. They sit high in the metal bleachers under an overcast sky, as the football team runs and tackles and grunts across the field below. Stiles turns his head and _holds still_ as Lydia pats flesh-coloured liquid on the mark with her fingers and a sponge. She works slowly and methodically and the entire process is rather soothing.

“So,” she says at last.

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“Do you _like_ him, like him?” Pat pat pat. Blend blend. Pat. “Or just _like_ him.”

“Gee Lyds, I don’t know. I’ll get Allison to pass a note to you in gym class.”

Lydia sighs. “Stiles. I just don’t want. We’re all.” Another sigh.

“Jesus!” Stiles tries to flail without moving his body. “I’m not going to hurt Derek! I don’t even think that’s possible! He doesn’t even like me like that. We’re just messing around. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well if that’s the attitude you’re going into this relationship with—”

“It’s _not_ a relationship.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s—” Stiles stop short. “It’s. Uh.”

Lydia puts her little bottle of liquid magic down and crosses her arms. “Ok then. Let’s start simple, shall we? How did it even happen?”

 

//

 

“You kissed me,” Derek says. He’s pulled back and he’s panting slightly, which pleases Stiles to no end.

“You let me,” Stiles says. It’s dark in the car and it’s his birthday and his heart is trying to crawl up his throat and out his mouth. “And then you kissed me back.”

Derek nods and swallows. He’s not going to argue then. Good.

“Is this like…some kind of dare?” He frowns. “Did Scott put you up to this?”

Stiles laughs. Then his heart breaks a little. “What?” His fingers twitch on his thighs. “No Derek Jesus. I just. I just wanted to. It’s my birthday,” he adds.

“Happy Birthday,” Derek says automatically. “I’m still confused.”

“I. There’s no confusion to be had. I’m. I just wanted.” Stiles has run out of words. Trust Derek to throw his half-assed plan all off kilter. “Did you not want to?”

“It’s not.” He takes a breath. “You’re still so young, Stiles.” It’s sounds automatic, robotic, the stock answer.

“You’re talking like you’re 80 dude.” He stops. “You’re not secretly 80, right?” Derek just rolls his eyes. “And hey, I’m perfectly legal now, buddy. It’s my—”

“Birthday. I know. I got that part.”

“Good.”

Derek shifts a little in his seat, turning so he’s looking at Stiles straight on. He looks puzzled. He looks _nervous_. “And you wanted to?” he says. One hand moves to touch his mouth. Stiles’ heart breaks again.

“Yeah. I mean. I know, ok? Scott told me. I know. So, it’s ok. We can just. You know.”

Derek shakes his head. “Scott told you what? We can just what?”

“You know. About—” he pauses. “—relationships,” he whispers. “We can just. You know. Without that part.”

Derek stares. “What are you talking about, Stiles?”

Stiles groans and surges forward, mouth on Derek’s mouth, hands in Derek’s hair, on the sides of his face, the back of his neck.

“No strings attached, ok?” Stiles says, breathless, against the side of Derek’s face, his jaw, his ear. “We can do that, if that’s what you want.”

“Is that what _you_ want?” Derek says. His hands are under Stiles shirts, sliding against smooth smooth skin, up his sides around to his back, down the notches of his spine, everything warm and smooth. “Is it?”

Stiles just kisses him hard, harder and Derek just keeps kissing him back.

 

//

 

“That’s how it happened,” Stiles says as Lydia covers yet another hickey near the juncture of his neck and collarbone. “Not how it started, exactly, but how it happened.”

“But, it’s _still_ happening,” Lydia says. Shrewd Lydia. She moves back to appraise her handiwork. She must be satisfied because her little bottles are all capped and placed one two three back in her bag.

“Well, yes.” Stiles moves to touch the sore spot. Lydia slaps his hand, hard.

“But, it’s not a relationship.”

“No, no.” Stiles shakes his head. “No. We’re both. We both agreed.”

“Uh huh.” They’re walking slowly back from the bleachers to the high school building. There are teenagers swarming all around them, loud, aggressive, horny teenagers, beautiful boys and girls who would happily engage in any number of carnal activities with Stiles, even let them call them his girlfriend or boyfriend, but Stiles sees none of them.

“So, you just, what, hook up? When the—” she pauses, a bit distastefully, “— _need_ hits?”

Stiles thinks. It is a need, he thinks. He’s a horny 18-year-old dude with needs, yes, but he’s always taken care of those needs perfectly fine before. Sure it’s a lot more fun to have those needs satisfied with someone else willing and able present, and especially when that someone else is Derek Hale, but. 

But.

“Would you like to be doing those things with anyone else?” Lydia, always the wise, asks him.

“Uh.” Stiles says. He pushes a pull door. Lydia pats his shoulder.

“Ok Stiles. It’s ok. Just. Don’t.”

“Hurt him,” he says with a sigh.

She just looks at him. “That too.”

 

//

 

The need hits a lot.

There’s no more kissing, though, and minimal tenderness. Now it’s just straight to the chase, so to speak, dive right in, clothes off, let the sexing commence. Stiles tells himself it’s better that way, less complicated, and since Derek doesn’t complain, he figures they’re both on the same page, sexually speaking.

Oh, there’s not a lot of that, either, the speaking thing. It’s more grunts and half-shouted orders, hisses of pleasure, sighs of release and relief.

After running through the woods, after nearly dying, after a particularly gruelling lacrosse practice, after a particularly gruelling day of beta training. They learn each other’s bodies impressively quickly, throwing basic embarrassment aside in favour of immediate, mind-blowing pleasure.

“Yes, there, there,” Stiles stutters out as Derek eases one two fingers inside his slicked self, ragged breathing, sweat in the eyes. They’re both hard, wanting to get the other one off first, like it’s some kind of unspoken contest which Derek usually wins, as the afternoon shadows grow long and spread across Stiles’ bedroom floor, Derek always listening for the Sheriff’s car in the drive. The push and pull between them with mouths on cocks and deep thrusts and faces buried painfully hard against hard shoulder bones.

“Teeth!” Derek yelps on more than one occasion as Stiles bites hard. He breaks skin more often than Derek does, something he’s secretly proud of, even as he watches the bloody wound knit itself back together before his eyes. Derek is stupidly gentle with him, something he’s commented on, urging him on, harder, though he knows Derek never goes full tilt on him. He’s always holding back.

“You’re really good at this,” Stiles says, panting hard like he’s run 10 miles.

“If you say so,” is Derek’s response. He’s flat on his back, one leg over the side of Stiles’ bed, it’s Stiles’ bed today, and he’s out of breath too. Not as much as Stiles but he’s breathing harder than he’s letting on. Stiles can feel himself getting hard again just listening.

“I do say so. I say so a lot, man.”

“It’s not like you have much to compare me to,” Derek says, and he sounds wistful and he sounds proud.

“I know, dude. You don’t have to remind me. Not like you.”

“Not like me what.”

“Well, you must have like.” Stiles swallows. He doesn’t really want to have this conversation but. “You know. Experience. Seriously.”

Derek doesn’t answer immediately.

“Oh god,” Stiles says. “It’s a lot isn’t it. I knew it. Just give me the rounded down number ok. Is it more than 50? You can tell me. It would explain a lot. A _lot_.”

The bed shakes a little beneath them. Stiles turns to look. Derek is _laughing_ , silently, eyes closed tight.

“Stiles.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! It’s more than 50, right? Fuck!” Stiles covers his face with hot sweaty hands. He’s mortified. He’s so stupid. So fucking naïve.

Derek turns on his side, pulls one of Stiles hands away from his face with some considerable effort.

“I’m not a virgin, Stiles.”

“Obviously!” Stiles yells, then bites his lip. “I mean yes. Yes. I know, knew that, before this all started and you’ve proven your admirable skills admirably.”

Derek shakes his head. “With women, yes. Some. Not very many. Like.” He sighs. “Three actually.” Stiles looks at him. He’s not sure he believes him. “And no. Well. You’re the first. Yeah.”

They stare at each other across the bed space. Derek shrugs a bit like he’s embarrassed but resolute in his embarrassment.

“Ok?” Derek says, like he’s not sure it is ok at all.

Stiles opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but he just swallows hard instead.

“Ok,” he says, and he’d kiss Derek, softly and sweetly, he really would, if they did things like that.

 

//

 

Derek counts Stiles’ various wounds after they’ve gotten each other off, sometimes before, sometimes, even during, which Stiles finds much hotter than he should.

“Where did you get this?” Derek’s wet wet mouth at his collar bone, wet tongue over a small purple bruise there.

Stiles tries to remember, he really does. His mind is oddly blank. “Uh. Lacrosse. Probably. Yeah. We’ll go with that.”

“What about this one?” Derek ghosts his mouth over a scratch on his arm. Stiles shudders.

“Closed my locker door on it.”

“And this?” Derek’s finds a tiny cut between two fingers, deep in the webbing.

“Paper cut,” Stiles whispers. “Hurts like a sonofabitch.”

“They always do,” says Derek and he puts his tongue there, too. He keeps going, then stops.

“What’s this?” he asks, and his voice is hard and abrupt. Stiles raises his head to look. He can’t see though because it’s on his back, low down on the right side. Oh. Right.

“Uh. Got shoved into a wall a few days ago.”

“By who?” Derek is tense, poised. Stiles looks at him then away.

“Guy named Alex. He kinda hates me. I dunno.” He puts a hand on Derek’s arm. It’s quivering. “It’s fine, man. I forgot it was there.”

“Why on earth would he hate _you_?” Derek asks, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world to hate Stiles, which is pretty _ironic_ coming from him.

“I don’t know. Who knows? Some people just hate other people. It happens.” Stiles sighs. “ _Some_ people say I have a sarcastic streak.”

He goes to lie back down but before he can Derek is there, his mouth is there, and he’s _kissing_ the bruise on Stiles’ back, softly and tenderly. They both freeze.

“Uh,” Stiles says, mainly because Derek looks like he’s been caught stealing money from the cash register at his part-time job. “It’s ok.”

Derek still doesn’t move, mouth hanging slightly open. He closes it with a snap and takes his hands right off Stiles. Stiles needs to fix this, fast. He grabs Derek’s dick.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Stiles says between slides. Derek moans.

“What doesn’t?” He arches into Stiles’ touch.

Stiles gestures with his free hand, the one not touching Derek in a very distracting way.

“I mean. I know you don’t want anything, like, serious—” His voice cuts off when Derek finds his bare neck with his lips, bites down as hard as he thinks is acceptable.

“What are you babbling about?” Derek says into the impossibly soft salty skin of Stiles’ neck, right where it meets his collarbone. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok, this is good. I’ll take this. I’ll take _anything_ ,” Stiles says, his voice gone tight and strained like it does right before he comes. Derek makes a note to file that away to examine later but for some reason he never does.

 

//

 

They lose a fight to a rogue pack of wolves and Derek thrusts hard. The bed slams against the wall and Stiles cries out. He’s sure the entire neighbourhood hears. He smiles.

Stiles get a C on a pop science quiz and spends an hour blowing Derek in the back of his Jeep.

For no reason at all they’re sprawled on Stiles’ too-small bed engaged in mutual hand jobs and trying very hard not to kiss each other while they do it. Derek’s mouth gnaws at Stiles’ shoulder instead while Stiles urges him on with quiet moans and hisses against the top of his head. Afterward he curls up and yawns and years for sleep but Derek seems to realize where he is and what’s just happened and what might still happen. He jerks himself awake. It looks painful. Stiles puts one hand, tentative, on his bare chest, holds it there.

Derek never stays the night. Stiles pretends he doesn’t mind.

“You don’t have to,” he says, in the dark.

Derek’s already sitting up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s still moving when he replies. “Have to what,” Derek says. He’s gathering his clothes from the floor, not even fumbling or stumbling because magic werewolf night vision.

“That. What you’re doing right now. You don’t have to do that.” Stiles feels so nervous he could puke. He swallows so hard he’s sure Derek hears with his magic werewolf super hearing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to get dressed so I need my clothes. Which are all over the floor. So I’m getting them.” Derek says all this in a clipped no-nonsense way that makes Stiles want to throttle him. Then kiss him.

“Derek. Stop.”

Derek stops. He’s standing in the middle of the dark room, jeans on but not zipped, shirt dangling from one hand. His head is down. He’s looking at his bare feet Stiles guesses. Did he wear socks? It’s cold. He must have worn socks. Or maybe his feet don’t get cold. Stiles realizes there are so many things, little things, he doesn’t know about Derek Hale. Stiles closes his eyes briefly.

“You always. Leave. I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, Stiles and it’s fine. I just need to go. I need to get dressed and I need to go.”

“Why?” Stiles’ voice is small in the small room. He feels stupid he feels like a child but he can’t help it. He’s tired of this. He wants this to be different but he doesn’t want to tell Derek he wants it to be different. He wants Derek to want it to be different without having to ask and he knows that’s stupid but he just wants it all to be different without having to actually talk about it.

“Because we have an agreement Stiles, remember? Your words, remember? No relationship. No strings attached. Sleeping over after—” he pauses. “After _fucking_ —" His voice is pitched low here. “—implies something more. Something we agreed not to have. Remember?”

Stiles watches Derek continue with the clothes. He’s fumbling now, his hands not as quick, not as sure, like he suddenly can’t see in the dark at all. Derek turns to Stiles at last and he sounds really angry. “Stiles. Do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He turns over in his small cold bed and pulls the comforter up over his bare shoulders. “Yeah. I remember.”

He pretends to go to sleep but he hears every single fumbling stumbling sound Derek makes from there on out replay in his head long after Derek climbs through the window without a goodbye.

 

//

 

There’s a party and Stiles is going. He doesn’t care. He needs a party. He needs to get out of his house and out of his head. Scott looks embarrassingly surprised and happy when Stiles accepts the invitation and it’s Scott and Allison and Stiles heading out into the great unknown.

Then there’s noise and beer and shots and music and dancing. Ah, the dancing. How long has it been since Stiles danced with abandon? He’s thrown into the middle of a sweaty pulsating dance floor and he _loves_ it. He’s too long deprived both himself and others of his epic moves but not tonight.

He downs one shot and then a beer followed by another shot and then a red plastic cup of something that is _way_ too strong and he dances and doesn’t think about Derek at all. Derek who? He and Derek are fuckbuddies and that is all and fuckbuddies implies that the scene is wide open for Stiles and the scene tonight is a house filled with happy horny teenagers looking for a good time. Stiles is determined to have a good time, too, even if he doesn’t feel particularly happy or horny at the moment. He’ll give it a go, though.

He deserves, as his dear dad would say, a break.

He loses count after the first three wet and sloppy kisses. He loses count after someone’s hands are under his shirt and whoa he didn’t sign up for that so he moves away but the kissing is ok, he supposes. They are short and sweet and alcohol-fuelled and anonymous and don’t mean anything at all. He’s having a Good Time and Not Thinking. For four blissful hours he doesn’t think about anything except music and moving and alcohol and other people. There are lips lots of lips and some belong to girls and some belong to boys and some are bad and some are ok and he doesn’t think. He just doesn’t think at all about anything until there are strong, warm hands on his shoulders, under his armpits and he’s being hauled to his feet and thrown in the back of a cab.

“Slow down there, buddy.” It’s Scott’s voice and he sounds drunk but not as drunk as Stiles and they’re in the back of a cab hurtling through the night and Stiles lets the streetlights wash over his face as they hurtle towards his house.

Then he’s stumbling up the stairs and into his bedroom, head reeling, stomach churning and he wants his bed, just his bed and 12 uninterrupted hours of nothing, not even dreams. Except there’s someone in his room. It’s a Derek someone and he’s sitting there waiting for Stiles. He looks nervous and worried and he’s on his feet when Stiles stumbles in, clutching anything he can get his hands on.

“Hey,” Derek stands all formal and stiff, like he’s been waiting for hours and says, like he’s been rehearsing. “Look. I just. I wanted to say. Last night. I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m. I’m sorry and I just wanted—” Then he stops and his nostrils flare and his fists clench.

“Derek,” Stiles says, or slurs. Jesus his head is starting to hurt and his stomach is churning again.

“You’re drunk,” Derek says.

“You betcha.”

Derek takes another step closer. He sniffs again. “And. You. You’ve been kissing someone.” Sniff sniff. “More than one someone.”

“Right again, Sherlock.”

“Stiles.” It’s just one word, just his stupid name but Derek puts so much weight and meaning and emotion into it, all this longing and disappointment and disgust and sadness and Stiles’ stomach just can’t handle it. And again, quieter, “Stiles.”

Stiles lurches forward and grabs his trash can and pukes fully and convulsively into it while Derek watches, face impassive. He doesn’t even come to rub his back or anything. Stiles can smell the stench filling the room and he can only imagine how it’s affecting Derek’s werewolf senses but he doesn’t even feel bad about it.

There doesn’t seem to be much to say after the puking because neither of them says anything. Stiles sways on the spot and Derek glares at him from across the room, hands clenched at his sides. He’s fairly trembling with some emotion Stiles can’t name but he can’t really see straight or think straight at the moment so.

“I didn’t fuck anyone at least.” Stiles says this like it’s something to be proud of. His mouth tastes awful but he doesn’t feel sick anymore. Or, as sick.

“I know.”

“But like, I could have, right? It wouldn’t have mattered, right? To you?”

Derek growls again, lower this time.

“Are you like...mad?” Stiles says this slowly like he’s trying to figure something out.

Derek grinds his teeth. Stiles can hear molar against molar even with his pathetic human auditory processing abilities.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” Stiles says. He slams the door behind him and staggers closer to his beloved bed. His dad is working, thank god for some good luck in his life. Derek seems rooted to his spot, chest rising and falling under an unfairly attractive grey sweater. “Do I need to remind you of our conversation from _last night_? We’re not together Derek, remember? This—” He waves a hand between the two of them, standing so far apart. “This here is not a relationship, remember? No strings attached. Remember?”

Derek nods once, tight and stiff. “Yeah. Yeah I remember.” He pauses. “I just didn’t. I didn’t think that meant.”

“What? That we were exclusive?” Stiles tries to lift his shirt over his head. He realizes quickly that’s not going to happen so he stops. “Well, I was wondering that too, but you set me pretty straight last night.”

“So, tonight you just had to run out and what. Make up for all the action you were missing out on?”

“Why are you so surprised, Derek?” Stiles tries in vain to kick off his sneakers. It’s a losing battle. Derek watches and almost looks like he wants to help but holds himself back. Such restraint. It’s admirable. “You think no one else wants a piece of this?”

“I don’t think that at all,” Derek says. He’s backed up a little, toward the window and the darkness beyond from whence he came, like some miserable vampire. Ah a simile. Stiles is pretty fucking poetic when he’s smashed. “I think the exact opposite, actually.”

Stiles blinks furiously. He realizes he’s close to tears and that makes his irrationally angry. Fuck this. Fuck Derek. Fuck their agreement.

“This isn’t working,” Derek says quietly and Stiles experiences a moment of pure panic. “This. I can’t. I thought I could but.” He pauses. “I made a mistake.” He sighs like it hurts. “No strings attached, right?” Derek says, his voice soft, his lips turned up in a smile that looks anything but happy.

“No fucking strings attached my ass!” Stiles yells.

Stiles gets one shoe off but fuck the other one. He goes to unbutton his jeans but that task is simply far beyond his physical ability and he shuffles to his bed, blessed blessed bed and kind of collapses onto it. He throws one arm over his face to hide any tears that haven’t been sucked back into his eye sockets. “It’s all fun and games until someone goes and gets their _feelings_ puked all over, huh?”

He might pass out soon after that. He might dream about dark beautiful werewolves and bright red blood and falling and falling, about gaping coffin-shaped holes and dirt and dead people. When he raises his throbbing head off the saliva-encrusted pillow sometime the following day there’s a glass of water on his bedside table and the trash can is empty and his window is open, letting in a freshening breeze.

 

//

 

Derek idly thinks they might just go back to the way they were before, fucking for fun, meeting up after spectacular fights, mouths and skin open and bare, coming one after another, hips bucking, heads thrown back and necks taut with desire. No. They both work hard to actively avoid each other for weeks. No texts, no calls, no accidental meetings at clandestine locations. Stiles seems to all but fall off the map completely and just when Derek starts to really wonder, to feel serious flutters of panic building below his ribs, none of it matters anyway.

It's too late.

 

//

 

Derek sleeps an entire six hours during the time they’re searching for Stiles. Six restless grey hours filled with horrible visions of finding Stiles’ body twisted and mangled in the woods or finding Stiles’ body twisted and mangled and very dead in the back of his burned-out Jeep. He knows what they’re up against, knows what the others are willing to do if they have to, knows Argent will take Stiles out in a second if it comes to that, the Hunter in him never resting.

Derek doesn’t realize how much difficulty he’s having regulating his own emotions during all of it until he finally comes face to face with Stiles, or Stiles’ body, upright and dead-faced but not dead, not yet, and it’s all he can do not to grab him and throw him over his shoulder and run and run and run forever.

And for one fleeting moment he can _smell_ Stiles, the real one, buried under layers and layers of magic and pure evil. He can smell Stiles’ fear and panic and desperation, can hear his heartbeat ratchet up and up to hyperventilation levels, can see the longing and aloneness in Stiles’ eyes as they face off. Stiles, _his_ Stiles, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and Derek takes a faltering step forward like he can fix it, can fix everything with what, a fucking _hug_? Some whispered promises, desperate pleas to just come back come back come back to us, to me, Stiles. _Don’t leave, please, if you leave if you die I’ll die too because I love you_ , and where the fuck did that come from? All of these thoughts shoot through Derek’s sleep-deprived, heartsick and panicked skull in the three seconds it takes for the Nogitsune’s mask to fall completely back into place.

And then Stiles is gone.

 

//

 

And then it’s over.

In the weeks after they don’t see each other or talk to each other much. They see one another from a distance. They make eye contact. Derek nods and Stiles nods back, like distant relatives, like people who used to know one another a long time ago and don’t really have anything to talk about now. It breaks Derek’s heart, if he’s being honest, which he’s not, but at least Stiles is safe, Stiles is alive. He keeps telling himself that, like a mantra. Stiles is alive and maybe that has to be good enough.

The closest they come to actually conversing in a meaningful way happens one evening at the grocery store. Derek goes late because there are fewer people and it all goes to hell in the dairy aisle. Stiles is just standing there, illuminated in garish light, stock still, perplexed by the multitudes of cheese at his disposal. Derek thinks for a moment about just turning around and walking away without saying a word, but Isaac _needs_ Swiss for sandwiches and this is stupid. So he keeps walking towards his destination and he says Hey like it’s nothing and Stiles doesn’t even startle. He just smirks a little without turning his head.

“I thought you were gonna hightail it outta here for a minute.” He reaches out for a block of Cheddar. “I really have this whole town spooked. Never thought there’d be a day when you’d be fucking scared of me, too.”

“Stiles, I’m not—”

“Oh not physically scared,” Stiles amends. He turns then to look at Derek and his face is drawn and thin and oh so tired. “At least not anymore. But, like. You know.” He lifts a hand and waves it limply between them. He sighs. “It’s ok,” he says, his voice very quiet. “I understand. I know you worked really fucking hard to find me and to help and everything. I’ve been told I have a lot to be thankful for. So, thank you. Really. I have a lot to be thankful for, so I’ve been told.” His eyes fill with tears and Derek has never wanted to hug him more, right there under the glaring, flickering lights of the Dash N Save in front of six rows of Mozzarella and Marble but then the Sheriff comes wheeling around the corner, arms full of crackers and cereal boxes and when he sees Stiles his entire body goes limp with relief.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles says, robotic. “Derek’s here. I’m fine, see?” His face does something that resembles a smile and both Derek and John cringe a little.

“I know you’re fine, Stiles. I just. I couldn’t find you for a minute and.” They all stand there staring at one another. Derek swallows hard past some weird lump in his throat. He can’t stop looking at Stiles who, despite everything, looks so fucking beautiful he can’t look away.

“I’m ready to go, dad,” Stiles says, relieving John of some of his groceries. “See you around, Derek.” He moves to follow his dad, then stops and turns back. “Don’t forget Isaac’s Swiss. He’ll be mad as hell.”

 

//

 

“So,” his dad says, three days after what will forever be known in Stiles’ mind as the Fantastic Food Store Fuckup. Alliteration! He’s perched on the edge of Stiles’ bed. Stiles is lying still and quiet in his bed, where he spends a lot of his time these days. “Derek Hale.”

Stiles looks at him. “What about Derek Hale.”

“He seems like. He cares.”

“What about?”

“Well, you for starters.”

“What makes you think that?” Stiles smells. Even he can smell himself so his dad can surely smell him, too, but he has the kindness and grace and good parenting gene that prevents him from making distasteful faces.

“Well, for starters—” this seems to be a favourite phrase of his dad’s these days. He seems to think it softens the blow of what he really wants to say but it just irritates the hell out of Stiles. “For starters he’s called me three times to ask how you are.”

Stiles checks his own phone but it remains as silent and empty as ever. Only Scott texts him these days, but even those are few and far between. Everyone seems to be giving him a wide berth, either because they’ve been told to, or because they want to, which is what Stiles’ suspects.

“He was worried sick about you while you were.” John stops.

“Possessed.” 

“Well, yes. He really was.”

“He was just doing his job.”

“It wasn’t his job to help. He wanted to help. I couldn’t get him to stop helping.”

“Well I’m not possessed anymore.”

“No, no you’re not.”

“So, now he doesn’t need to worry anymore, does he?”

“I think he. I think he’s still worried.”

“That I’m still possessed?”

“That everything has changed.”

 

//

 

Derek knows Stiles is healing so he leaves him alone, doesn’t even entertain the thought, however hard it presses at his brain, to slide in his bedroom window, even if it’s just to sit and watch him sleep in the night hours. Instead he spends his time running, walking, planning. He signs up for some online courses and looks after his pack. He tries not to think about anything. Or remember. Remembering is the worst. And dreaming. Dreaming that he and Stiles are together and then waking up to realize they’re not together. They’re not anything anymore. And he’s just reached the point of bare, tremulous acceptance of this fact when he shows up.

Derek has parked his car and he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, still, completely still, hands resting on the steering wheel, his senses suddenly completely overwhelmed with the scent of Stiles, of the memory of the two of them in the back seat, all over each other, laughing at the absurdity and calamity of trying to get off in the back of a Camaro Jesus Christ what is he _doing_. He slams his hands down hard on the edge of the steering wheel, once twice and again, so there’s a welcome sting on his palms, not nearly hard enough but enough to snap him out of his stupid pointless reverie. He pushes the door open and slams it shut hard and then there he is, in the flesh so to speak. Stiles. Right in front of him, Jeep parked two spots over, like he’d been waiting for Derek to come home. Stiles’ hair has been recently shorn and he looks thinner, even dressed in three layers Derek can still tell. He’s standing slightly hunched, hands shoved into jean pockets, head slightly tilted as he studies Derek. The longing to touch Stiles is almost unbearable. They don’t touch each other.

“Hey,” Stiles says and he sounds the same. He sounds exhausted and bone weary, a weariness Derek has never heard from him before, but it’s Stiles. His Stiles. Derek nods at him, not trusting his voice. “Your hands ok?”

“My…what?”

Stiles moves then, steps forward and reaches out for Derek, fingers circling his wrists and lifting his hands, palms up, to look. There are very faint red lines slashed across the skin, fading as they watch, but not as quickly as they should. His healing powers have been slow lately, sluggish. He wonders why. He knows why.

The sensation of Stiles’ skin on his is too much after too long. Derek pulls his hands back like they’ve been scalded. Stiles lets his own hands fall awkwardly to his sides and backs up quickly, face going tight and flushed. He bites his lip and nods in understanding.

“It’s ok. I get it.”

“What?”

“You. You don’t want me anymore. I get it. I do.”

“Get _what?_ ”

“You can barely look at me let alone touch me. I know. I fucked a lot of things up. I changed everything. I get that. I can barely stand to be around me. You’re not the only one, but you’re like, the most important one.” Stiles’ voice breaks and he barks out a harsh laugh and looks away. There are dark dark circles under his eyes. Derek can smell it all, the uncertainty, the embarrassment, the _shame_ and that’s what does him in.

“Stiles.” It’s one word and it fills up his entire mouth as his eyes fill with tears. He can’t remember the last time he cried that wasn’t from physical pain or frustration or pure burning rage.

“I’ve just. I’ve missed you so much, ok? I’m sorry but I have. And. I just thought. I thought maybe—”

Derek crosses to him in three quick strides and has his arms around him. He’s thin and wiry but solid and _alive_ and the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen. He hugs him so tight he thinks he’s going to hurt him, but Stiles just hugs him back, holds on tight, fingers digging into Derek’s back so hard there’s going to be marks, at least for a little while.

 

//

 

They hike for hours in the woods. It’s something they do now, physical things that aren’t sex. Derek leads and sets the pace, easy and casual, past all the familiar markers. His goal is distraction, to keep Stiles’ body moving, to tire him out so he’ll sleep, as dreamlessly as possible at night. Derek can smell the woods and beneath that he can smell Stiles, the clean scent of him, soap and laundry detergent and a weariness but a physical one this time. He can smell the beginnings of contentment and a tiny tiny flicker of hope, under all of that.

They come to a clearing at the end of the day and they lie, side by side on the cooling ground, staring up at the early night sky.

“I can read again,” Stiles says, out of nowhere. They’re lying on their backs staring up at the sky. It’s quiet except for night noises and this makes Stiles want to speak more quietly than normal. He’s so very tired but tonight it’s a good kind of tired. It’s a bone-weary kind of tired and he thinks he might actually sleep ok tonight.

Derek turns his head a bit. “You can?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “Yeah. Like not totally like I could before, but better. And it’s getting better every day. I started with cereal boxes, right? Like when I was eating breakfast. Riboflavin. Iron. Zinc.”

Derek smiles. “Vitamins A and C.”

“Sixty percent fibre.”

“Holy shit. Sixty percent? Are you guys okay?”

“Unbelievably delicious!” Stiles laughs a little. “It’s for my dad. Because when you get old your digestion sucks or something.”

Derek waits.

“So yeah. I was reading this morning about the eggs. This is crazy, dude. You’re not going to believe it.” He waves one long-fingered hand lazily in the air above their heads. Derek is mesmerized.

“What thing?” he says. He licks his lips. They’re dry and stiff. “What _eggs_?”

“I read that scientists can unboil, _uncook_ , a cooked egg. Boiling an egg causes the proteins to tangle, and it was thought to be irreversible, right?”

“Well. I would think so?”

“You _would_ ,” Stiles says, poking him in the shoulder. “Because it was. Until now. Now scientists boil the cooked egg, then dissolve it in urea, I don’t know it’s some kind of chemical, and it causes the proteins to be broken down and shifted around which makes a clear protein called lysosome.”

Stiles is speaking faster and faster. “Then you have to put the lysosome in a vortex fluidic device and spin it at 5000rpm which untangles the proteins as they’re pulled apart by the force. And voila. The cooked egg is uncooked.”

Derek looks at him. “Untangle the proteins,” he says. Stiles’ face is flushed, his hands twitching with excitement.

“Yeah. It’s for cancer research or something. I think that’s what it said.”

Derek doesn’t understand any of it but he nods. “You read all that and memorized it. That’s. Good. Right?” Stiles shakes his head like that’s not the important part of anything he just said.

“No no no _wait_.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “So basically,” Stiles goes on, voice soft and steady. “They can uncook an egg. They can take something that was transformed, altered like permanently, right? And they can change it back to the way it was. Like. Like time travel or something. Undoing something. Starting over. Like, even though the egg got cooked, and changed, it’s possible to change it back and make it, make it like it was, but maybe different at the same time. Like. Starting over. Starting _again_.” There’s a pause. “It’s fucking crazy.” He looks over. His voice goes small and soft, unsure “Don’t you think?”

Derek processes all of this, what Stiles is saying and underneath, what Stiles is trying to tell him, what’s he’s _asking_ him. For a moment his heart stutters and swells with such _fondness_ he can’t draw a breath. Then he turns his head and just stares at this boy, this _man_ , he reminds himself. He reaches down and takes Stiles’ hand, twines long, cold fingers together. He holds on tight. “I think it sounds like some kind of miracle.”

 

//

 

There are no hickeys to cover right now but he and Lydia still sit together, high in the bleachers. It’s cold and the wind is blowing but it’s a nice break from the dry, cloying heat of the school. Stiles can breathe out here and he knows Lydia is shivering and refuses to put on a hat because of _hair_ but she sits with him and they talk, even if it’s for 15 minutes until she’s shivering so hard they have to go back. Stiles’ cheeks hurt from the cold but he doesn’t care. He’s feeling _something_ and it’s good.

“So, you’re dating now.”

Stiles nods. He scans the empty field below them and beyond that the empty treeline beyond, grey and bare. Rain is coming.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I guess. Yeah. It’s dating.”

“Like. Restaurants? Nice ones? Movies? Popcorn?”

“ _Bowling_. Walks in the park. Holding hands. Goodnight kisses.”

“No sex.”

“No, not yet. He’s a proper gentleman,” Stiles says and huffs out a laugh. Lydia leans into his side, smiling.

“Good. Good, Stiles.” She smiles up at him, her cheeks rosy. “I just want you to be—”

“Careful. I know.”

“No, silly,” she says. “ _Happy._ ”

 

//

 

And he wasn’t lying when he said dating. They go on proper dates now and they have proper rules. And they’re following them. Properly. Derek picks him up at the house and says hi to the Sheriff. He has dinner with them occasionally and even helps with dishes after. Stiles picks Derek up at his apartment in the Jeep and after the first time he held the door open for him, Derek gave him such a withering look that Stiles apologized and never ever did it again. They go to movies and kiss in the back row, slunk low in their seats under cover of darkness and ear-shattering soundtracks, but that’s all they do. Stiles has never been kissed so much and so thoroughly. They kiss until his mouth is swollen and sore, the skin around it red with beard burn. They touch each other under their shirts, up and down ribs and muscled stomachs, nipples occasionally but that way leads to madness, and nothing below the waist, both of them straining and hard in their jeans, painful and panting, Derek growling against his neck, nipping at skin, then licking it with an apologetic tongue.

When Stiles returns home after one of these many outings he stumbles into his room and into his bed, shoving jeans down over his hips and grasping himself and coming with three quick strokes. That’s what Derek does to him without even really touching him. It’s embarrassing it’s thrilling it’s heady and it’s the most fucking amazing feeling in the world.

 

//

 

Scott figures it out last.

“You’re. In a relationship? With Derek.” Scott purses his lips and nods. “I mean. Cool. Really.”

Stiles smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

“I mean. You seem happy.”

Stiles bites back a grin and shrugs. He can’t stop smiling.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

 

//

 

There’s a pond Derek knows about — remembers — and once Stiles hears about its existence it must be visited and it must be swum in, according to Stiles. Derek is simply reminiscing about a place he and his family used to visit when he was a child, how peaceful it was, how idyllic, how he and Laura and Cora spent hours swimming there and exploring and sunning and Stiles lights up like a Christmas tree and won’t stop asking questions.

“How far away? Do you think it’s still there? Let’s go look. Because. Because why not? It’s like a little adventure for us. C’mon, Derek. Please? Because I asked. What’s the worst that could happen? For me? Please?”

So, they set off late-afternoon one Sunday, Derek armed with a vague memory of where this mysterious pond is with summer sun beating down and Stiles fairly bouncing in his seat next to him.

And they find it. Derek can hardly believe his eyes. It’s smaller than he remembers, of course, but it’s there, an expanse of grey green water framed by thick dark woods. It’s quiet and secluded and completely perfect. 

“Oh my god!” Stiles says. “You swam here. You swam here, right? Your actual childhood body was in these waters and now we’re going to swim in these waters.”

“That’s...kind of weird, Stiles,” Derek says, but he’s smiling. He can’t help it, especially as Stiles is already stripping down, shirts, shorts, underwear, kicking them to the side in the muddy weedy shore and running in full tilt. Derek stays where he is, admiring the view as Stiles whoops and hollers, diving under head first, bubbles and splashes erupting before he pops up 10 feet away from where he vanished. He shakes his head, letting loose a spray of droplets, silver in the waning sunshine. Derek could stay like this forever, he thinks, just like this, standing on the shore of this pond watching the person he loves more than anyone else in the world frolicking like a baby otter and his heart trembling with joy.

“Come on you big baby,” Stiles yells.

“Is it cold?”

“Like you’ll even feel it!” Stiles ducks under the surface again and doesn’t come up. Derek hesitates mid-strip, scanning the rippling green surface, listening with every sense he possesses but he can’t hear anything but the faint chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves. He’s about to dive in half-clothed when Stiles pops up again, much further out this time, almost in the middle of the pond. His cry of happiness echoes over the water, bouncing against the wall of trees and up to the sky. Derek starts breathing again and finishes undressing. He folds his clothes neatly on the shore next to Stiles’ trampled mess and makes his way into the water. It _is_ cold, and he _can_ feel it, not quite numbing but bone-deep, but damn if he’s going to let Stiles experience this without him. Ankles, knees, thighs. Stiles is treading water easily, watching Derek with a steady, appraising stare. Derek feels suddenly naked in more than just the obvious way, exposed and open and completely bare. When he can’t take the attention anymore he dives down, down, into the depths, eyes open to greenish black water, the fish, the logs below. He kicks and kicks, arms moving easily to propel himself closer and closer to Stiles. He can see his pale naked legs now, churning in the water, the lower half of his torso, his dick, everything exposed. It’s the first time they’ve been naked together in months and the sight fills him with a combination of tenderness and awe. He surfaces right in front of him, whipping his head and wiping water from his eyes. Stiles watches him steadily, smiling just a bit.

“Hi beautiful,” he says and he sounds so sweet and sincere that Derek can feel his cold ears go red and he laughs.

“Hi yourself,” he says. Stiles keeps staring with this _look_ so Derek splashes him in the face like a child and Stiles sputters and squawks and comes at him, arms pushing at Derek’s chest, then sliding over his shoulders and wrapping around his neck to hold on tight. The movement brings their bodies close together, closer, right up against each other, knees bumping below, hips and groins sliding together. Derek thinks about anything other than the fact that they’re both naked and they’re alone here and he starts swimming a bit, just for distraction, pulling Stiles along with him.

“Wow déjà vu,” Stiles says, laughing.

“It’s a lot easier when I’m not paralyzed,” Derek says, lifting Stiles up higher. His hands hook under Stiles’ cold ass, soft and hard at the same time and Derek’s entire body does a slow convulsive motion that he can blame on the cold water, if Stiles’ asks.

Stiles doesn’t ask.

Their skin is cold and slippery under the water where everything is dark. Derek is breathing harder than usual, but then so is Stiles and he’s not really exerting himself much at all. Derek stops swimming and starts treading water, arms holding Stiles steady. They’re facing each other, wet and shivering a bit when Derek leans forward and kisses Stiles on the mouth, softly, once. It’s a bit awkward, with the buoyancy of the water and the constant kicking to stay afloat but it’s one of the hottest, sweetest things he’s ever done, Stiles’ lips pliant and slack and very cold. Stiles watches him with his dark still eyes then leans forward and returns the kiss, hands digging into Derek’s shoulders, blunt fingernails holding on tight. Everything is touching now, from their mouths on down to their toes, bumping in a battle to stay above the water’s surface. Stiles reaches down to grab Derek’s hips and pulls him close and Derek can feel Stiles then, how hard he is, how desperate, right before Stiles goes right under the water, getting a mouthful and coming back up coughing hard.

“You idiot,” Derek says, nothing but fond. Stiles hacks again, then sneezes, spit and water flying everywhere and its gross but kind of perfect too. Derek hooks an arm under Stiles and pulls them both back to shore.

They stumble out of the pond, both half hard and gasping with the cold and the thrill. Stiles throws his arms around Derek on the bank, feet squelching in cold, sticky mud and he kisses and kisses Derek until they’re both breathless and so hard.

“I need you horizontal, like now,” Stiles against the side of Derek’s face. Derek nods, not trusting his voice. The drive back to Derek’s apartment is quiet, quieter than they’ve been since this all started up again. For some reason Stiles doesn’t feel the usual need to fill up every empty space with sound and words. He just sits, staring in turns out the window and then at the side of Derek’s face. Derek can feel Stiles’ gaze on him, can feel it with his growing impatience to be back at his apartment, in his bed, with this glowing, wet, beautiful boy beside him. They’ve had sex more times than he can count but this time it’s different. This time it’s slower, heavier, weighted, Derek thinks. Time has slowed down almost to a stop and he can see every muscle, every pore on Stiles’ body.

Stiles is still cold and Derek lays him out on the bed on his back then covers him completely with his own, now warm skin. He can feel tiny tremors as he kisses and kisses, every bit of skin he can get his mouth on, down his jaw and neck and then collarbone and chest.

“This…this is ok, right? We’re both. It’s.”

“Jesus, Derek, yes. We’ve been on 17 dates now. Did you know that? Seven. Teen. Get going. I swear if you stop now—”

Derek keeps going.

His fingers and eyes map every inch of Stiles’ body. He can see Stiles shivering, can see every swallow he makes and how it gets caught halfway down his throat. He kisses him there and he goes lower, and lower still, over dark moles and skin and bones to his dick lying fat and hard against his stomach.

When he swallows him down the heat of him in his throat is almost unbearable, a hot quivering thing in his mouth and Stiles bowing and arching underneath him almost undoes him completely. The sounds he makes, head thrown back and hands tangled in Derek’s wet hair, toes curling and digging into the sheets as Derek sucks and licks and breathes.

Stiles heaves a wavering sigh, head turning left and right on the pillow before he sits up on his elbows and smiles at Derek oh so fondly.

“C’mere,” he says and Derek does. He kisses him slow and soft but then Stiles slides a hand down down to Derek’s achingly hard dick, using his own come to ease the slide and fuck, _fuck_ , Derek, shudders and slams his head into Stiles’ sweaty shoulder much harder than he means to. Stiles doesn’t even seem to notice, his hand moving steadily, surely, knowing exactly what Derek likes, speed and grip and all the nuances he remembers just like they’d never been apart at all. He pushes Derek onto his back and replaces his hand with his mouth, his glorious, hot mouth and the tongue that Derek fantasizes about when he dares to fantasize about anything at all.

“Jesus, Stiles— fuck. Fuck.”

Stiles hums a bit and just like that Derek is coming, hard and fast with upturned hips and hands scrabbling for purchase. He manages a handful of bedsheets and a handful of Stiles’ still damp hair.

“Ok ok ok ok,” Derek says, coming down. They lay like that until Stiles slowly makes his way back up to the bed, groaning a bit with the exertion, stretching like a cat and curling into Derek’s side, arm and leg sliding easily over Derek’s sweaty skin. He presses a wet open-mouthed kiss to Derek’s shoulder, then reaches down and pulls the sheet up to cover them.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers as their eyes grow heavy. The bedroom window is open and a breeze is kicking up, curtains fluttering like twin ghosts. The weather has started to turn, all the days’ humidity building to the inevitable conclusion.

“For what?” Derek says. He’s tired, bone-weary. He pulls Stiles closer. Sleep is almost there.

“All of it,” Stiles says.

Outside, rain starts to fall.

 

//

 

On the one-year anniversary of Stiles ripping his hangnail off at a funeral he and Derek are walking in the Preserve. It’s a hot, still day, no cicadas, nothing, just the sounds of their breaths mingling as they walk and walk. Stiles has been oddly quiet, Derek notices. Quiet for Stiles, anyway, which means there hasn’t been the usual running commentary on every random subject that pops into his head. Derek finds he’s missing it, the sound of his voice, his quirky interesting thoughts and he’s just about to comment on its absence when Stiles’ foot catches on a tree root in front of him and he goes down, hard. He groans after he gets his breath back and lies there in the dirt as Derek hurries to his side, kneeling down beside him, hands on his shoulders, his sweaty back.

“You ok?” Derek asks. Stiles makes some kind of grunting noise, which is part pain and part embarrassment, Derek realizes, and he gets to his hands and knees with some help from Derek. “Are you hurt?” He doesn’t smell particularly hurt.

“Just my pride,” Stiles says, rubbing the front of his dirty T-shirt. Derek keeps his hand on his back in what he hopes is a soothing way. Stiles seems in no rush to get up. “Got distracted.”

“You seem a million miles away today,” Derek says casually. He helps Stiles to his feet, but again, Stiles seems in no rush to keep moving. Maybe he _is_ hurt. Stiles sighs, flexes his shoulders one at a time, bends at the knees and keeps walking, slower this time, more carefully. Derek follows, and waits. Ten minutes pass.

“What do you think happens when we die?” Stiles says this casually, over his shoulder, catching Derek completely off guard. He thinks before replying, wondering where this question is leading.

“I don’t know,” is what he goes with.

“Well, duh,” Stiles says. His voice is shaky. “I know you don’t _know_. But what do you _think_?”

“I don’t think. About it.”

Stiles stops moving. Derek almost walks into him. “Bullshit. That’s bullshit, Derek. No one loses as many people as you have and doesn’t think about what’s happened to them, about where they are. I’m sorry. I call bullshit.” He stops, then goes on, quieter. “I mean, if you don’t want to tell me, just say you don’t want to tell me. I just want to know what you think.”

And he knows he’s being cruel, maybe, but fuck it. If they’re going to do this, this relationship thing, they’re going to be honest and they’re going to talk and they’re going to call bullshit on each other’s bullshit. That’s just how it’s going to be and that’s that.

He thinks — expects — Derek to get mad. To just turn around and walk away maybe, yell, call him an asshole, which he’d totally deserve, but Derek surprises him once again. He just keeps surprising him. He sucks in a huge breath, holds it, then lets it out, hissing, slowly, through closed teeth.

“I think,” he says and his voice is low and steady but he’s holding himself very tightly, “that we keep going. I think that all the goodness in us doesn’t just disappear. I don’t think I believe in a specific heaven or hell situation, but I believe there’s something. There has to be. This can’t just be it.” He laughs. “This can’t be it. There has to be more and I have to believe that or I would have lost my mind by now, and I have to believe we see the people we love and have lost again.” He shrugs and looks at Stiles, almost shyly.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“What do you mean?” Stiles wants to hug him. “I like to know what you think about things.”

“Why?” Derek seems genuinely curious and Stiles almost laughs. Isn’t it obvious.

“Because I love you.” Stiles says it without preamble, without hesitation, like it’s the simplest, easiest thing in the world. He throws his arms out a little bit.

Derek just looks at him. “Oh,” he says. He clears his throat.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His cheeks have gone a tiny bit of pink but he doesn’t look away and he doesn’t make it into a joke and his mouth is set in that way it gets when he really means something and fuck everything.

“You’re my favourite and I love you and yeah so.” Then he turns around and starts walking and Derek has to hurry to catch up.

 

//

 

It takes two weeks for Derek to say it back, at least out loud. He’s thought it countless times every single day for more than a year but saying it requires a kind of courage he doesn’t have. But, he’s in a relationship now, a Real one, and he knows this is something people in Real, Committed relationships do. They Communicate, even when it makes them feel like they might just die of fright.

“I love you, too,” he blurts out. They’re parked in front of Stiles darkened house. His dad is working. They’ve been sitting in the car for half an hour debating the afterlife and whether reincarnation could actually exist and if so, what past lives they’ve lived and if they’ve met before. So far they’ve decided that Stiles was a forest ranger and Derek was a monk and they’ve lived at least three lives together. Derek’s heartbeat ratchets up so high he feels nauseous.

Stile stops talking mid-sentence and raises his eyebrows.

“Wow,” he says.

“Wow?” Derek frowns.

“Yeah. Wow. You’re all like sweating and vibrating. Is it because of that? The love thing?” He takes Derek’s trembling hand, picks it up and presses the palm to his mouth. He kisses it several times, then the fine skin of his wrist. Derek watches the progression. He nods, silent. “Did you think I didn’t know?”

“I.” Derek stops. “I don’t know.”

Stiles kisses him then pulls back. He touches two fingers to his own lips, then to Derek’s.

“What?” Derek says. He sounds both curious and slightly apprehensive.

“Hang on,” Stiles says. He’s already digging in his back jeans pocket. He pulls out a small blue and white tube. Lipsyl. He uncaps it, rubs it over his own lips, top and bottom, one, two, three times. Derek watches, mesmerized. When he’s finally satisfied, Stiles leans forward and kisses him again, slow, deliberate, lips slick with chap that’s the consistency of Vaseline but warm and soft. Soothing.

Stiles just kisses him hard, harder and Derek just keeps kissing him back.

 

//

 

They’re in the car and they drive and drive. Derek keeps one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the seat between them, palm up, fingers loose. Stiles slides his own hand over and lines it up with Derek’s, palm against palm and fingers twining. The road ahead is dark and Stiles isn’t sure where they’re going. Sometimes they do this, they just drive, no destination, no music, just them and a vehicle and hours alone together. The windows are open because it’s warm enough tonight and Stiles likes the wind on his face, on his skin. The sky is clear and Stiles can see stars above the black outlines of trees, pine and alder and maple, leaves and branches scratching against black-blue sky.

The moon is flat and silver and even though Stiles watches closely he can’t keep track of it as they drive through the dark.

“It keeps moving,” he says at last.

Derek looks at him.

“What does.”

“The moon.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, Stiles.” He smiles, softly. “We do.”

 

//

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the whole hangnail thing happened to me about a year ago, the picking, the infection, the salt water, the pus, the low-grade fever, the antibiotics, all of it. I felt like a first-class idiot going to the doctor to explain what happened but she didn’t bat an eye and sent me off with a stern warning and a prescription, so yeah. It happened, all of it. Except for, like, the magical healing werewolf thumb-sucking part. Sigh.


End file.
